The Hobbit: a Sherlock fanfic
by Guinevere81
Summary: The arrival of John's Halloween costume introduces Sherlock to the wonderful world of Tolkien and it doesn't take long before he's hooked. Later when John returns injured from the party after a rather unfortunate encounter with a few orcs Sherlock isn't quite sure what to feel, he likes the chance to care for injured Bilbo, but he hates to see an injured John.
1. Chapter 1

The parcel arrived in the early afternoon which was highly frustrating as Sherlock had absolutely no idea what it could possibly be and he had hours to wait until the intended recipient arrived home to open it.

He did repeatedly contemplate opening it but he knew that John would be angry. The one thing he seemed to hold as private was his military career and thus a parcel with Sandhurst listed as the return address, was bound to be counted as one of the few things Sherlock was not allowed to meddle in. However that only made it all the more interesting.

Sherlock didn't usually care about John's post or his privacy for that matter but he was bored and the parcel just seemed to make so little sense. John usually received nothing other than bills and the occasional promotional magazine but this was a large box and not from Amazon or some other obvious mail order company but from the military, the contents had to be interesting.

His attempts at doing the right thing and wait for John to come home lasts all of twenty minutes before he is rearing the paper off the box and pulling out its contents. He can rewrap it and John will be none the wiser.

What he finds inside entirely baffles him. Sherlock has never been particularly impressed with John's wardrobe but the garments he find in the box are not boring and generic, they are downright odd. Sherlock would never take John for the kind of person to wear three quarter length trousers. Then he spots the shoes and the prosthetic ears and it dawns on him that Halloween is just around the corner. But why would the army be sending John a masquerade costume and what on earth is it supposed to be of.

Searching through his store of information on monsters suitable to dress up as at Halloween takes up the rest of his afternoon, but nowhere in his mind palace does he have any information about a scary creature with pointy ears and enormous feet.

He doesn't end up rewrapping the parcel, he is too engrossed in his own mind and he isn't even really sorry about that when he hears the door slam below, announcing John's arrival.

John shuffles in, deposits his jacket on a chair and with a sigh puts the kettle on. He opens his mouth to ask Sherlock how his day has been but is interrupted.

'John what has huge feet and pointy ears and wears unattractively short trousers?' Sherlock asks and John's eyebrows shoot up.

'A hobbit.' John answers instantly turning toward his flatmate. 'Sherlock, if that is an attempt at a riddle you really haven't got the hang of them…. Oh no they didn't.' The last is exhaled with a sense of panic as John spots the opened parcel and the costume on the coffee table.

'I am not that short.' John exclaims angrily as he strides across the floor to examine the contents of the package. The statement makes no sense to Sherlock. What on earth does John's height have to do with the costume?

Sherlock contemplates further research but decides on the more direct approach seeing as John is right there. 'John what is a hobbit, and why is the army sending you a Halloween costume?' Sherlock asks and watches as John slumps in his chair holding a shoe shaped like a very large foot.

'I take it you deleted Hobbits along with the solar system then. You haven't by any chance noticed the fact that London is plastered in movie posters announcing _The Hobbit: Battle of the five armies_? It's only this year's biggest blockbuster.' John asks and his annoyed expression softens a little.

Of course Sherlock has seen those posters, they have been everywhere. 'There weren't any feet in those posters.' Sherlock argues, embarrassed at having missed something that John considers obvious.

'It's not just the posters Sherlock.' John shakes his head. 'The hobbit is one of the most famous children's books ever. It's brilliant, if you haven't read it you've missed out.' John smiles slightly and the frustration over the costume seems to have faded away.

'That may be but it still does not really explain why the army wants you to dress up as a character from a children's novel and blockbuster movie.' Sherlock looks at him quizzically.

'It's for a reunion. They're holding a large reunion for my graduating year from Sandhurst. They invite us every ten years for a big do, so this year it's everyone who graduated in 2004 like me but also those from 1994, 1984 and so on, it's a huge thing. I accepted the invite over a month ago. They said they would be sending costumes out. I was expecting zombies or pirates but I guess they decided to give it a theme based on the film release.' John sighs. 'I don't understand who got it into their thick head to make this year fancy dress, it's always been black tie before.' He moaned.

'So based on a film several hundred officers are going to be dressing up in giant feet and pointy ears. I'm glad I'll be missing that.' Sherlock laughed, his interest in the costume greatly diminished now that he had been given the explanation for it.

'I wish that was the case but I doubt it. The invite said we would be assigned characters to dress as. The book only has one hobbit, hence _the _Hobbit. I think this might mean I'm it.' John looked despairingly down at the giant foot he was holding.

'I fail to see the problem. Is there something horribly embarrassing about this hobbit, those posters you spoke of make him look rather like a hero.' Sherlock pushed barely interested any longer.

Instead of answering John got up gathered up his costume and disappeared up the stairs. Sherlock remained on the couch considering what had just transpired. Just as he was getting his phone out to google 'hobbits' John returned. He dropped two DVD cases and a thin, worn looking book in his lap. 'Educate yourself and deduce from there why I'm not entirely happy with this situation. I'm done explaining.' John huffed and stalked off again intent on phoning those of his friends he knew were going to the event to see if some of them at least had been given equally embarrassing costumes. Someone had to have gotten Gollum right?

Having nothing better to do Sherlock picked up the thin book and began to read 'This is a story of long ago. At that time the languages and letters were quite different from ours…'

An hour later he reached the end '"Thank goodness!" said Bilbo laughing, and handed him the tobacco-jar.' Was that it? Sherlock felt strangely deprived, he had enjoyed the book more than he would ever admit to John and now he felt it had been far too short. Then he remembered the two DVD's and promptly shoved the first one into the player. By the time all the dwarves had arrived in Bag End John turned up in the kitchen and started to make dinner. He was obviously flustered, having found that in fact all of the people he knew who were going had ended up nameless humans, or elves with the exception of two of the men who had been assigned to dress as orcs and were bragging about the cool costumes and the fact that they would apparently be offered help with makeup on the day.

They had all been highly amused by the fact that John had been given the part of Bilbo and to a man had argued how well suited he was. In all fairness to them there had been mention of bravery and kindness and always having the best of intentions but all bar one had found it irresistible to point out that John had after all ben the shortest male in their year by a good inch and a half.

For that very reason John was currently fuming at whatever nameless faceless person had come up with the idea of the themed reunion but he was still mildly pleased and surprised to see that Sherlock had actually taken his advice and was watching the first instalment of the film trilogy with rapt attention.

Stir fry finished John sat down with Sherlock and together they watched the rest of the film while John ate and Sherlock picked absentmindedly at the plate presented to him.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock would never admit to John the level his interest in the hobbit costume had taken. He had watched the films numerous times and now more or less knew the book off by heart. Finding that he knew the book and films pretty much as well as he was ever going to know them he had started to branch out. A quick internet search had proved that there was in fact an awful lot written about the books and the films. He had started off with the academic analyses… finding that there were more books had been a revelation and he devoured them quickly, disappointed that there had been relatively little about Bilbo in them. Then came the piles of academic writing and in the hours when John was at work and there was no risk of him catching Sherlock at it there was a plethora of fandom products online… merchandise yes, but more importantly art and writing enough to fill galleries and libraries… most of it of an awfully low quality, but at least it was never ending and that in itself fed Sherlock's new found obsession.

One afternoon he snuck into John's bedroom and searched out the costume. It had been stuffed back in it's parcel and shoved into John's wardrobe. Sherlock got it out and laid it all out on the bed. It was average in its design. Based on the costumes from the last film but made in cheap materials and badly sewn. It would look silly on John, the flimsy materials hardly flattering him, and it was slightly too big, clearly based off of old measurements from when John was more muscled and needed a larger fit. No, it would not do. He packed the costume up, leaving behind the feet and ears, there was nothing he could do about those, upgrading them would be too obvious, John would find out. Three hours later he was stuffing the materials back into place knowing that his tailor had a better version coming and he would have a fair few days of John working to switch them out.

Sherlock had no idea when the mildly curious parcel had turned into an obsession so great that he had in fact not taken a case for two weeks and still did not feel bored. Most likely it had been the moment he began reading that first book. For the obsession with nutritious meals and the solid bravery in the face of trolls, spiders and elves seems all too familiar and as he read of the little hobbit curled up under a tree crying for the fallen dwarf lord he did not see a faceless little creature, he saw John, standing before Sherlock's grave desperately trying to hide his tears with his hand. And when he watched the films and Bilbo surged forward to save the life of the dwarf king it was the image of a surprisingly calm and collected John standing at the side of the road waiting for Sherlock after having shot the cabbie that replaced the image of the sword wielding hobbit and as he lay on the ground watching the warg approach his expression was not far from that of John grabbing Moriarty and ordering Sherlock to run.

John might be frustrated with the casting of himself as the brave hobbit of the book and films but there was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that whoever had made the choice was cleverer than most. He wouldn't admit it out loud, not even to himself, but he was desperately looking forward to John's impending costume party. He had even intentionally derailed two separately booked hairdressers appointments and used John's hair clippers for a gruesome experiment that left them entirely too unsanitary in order to get John's hair to grow just a little bit longer. To his satisfaction it was starting to curl up slightly at the edges by the time the event arrived.

On the day in question John emerged from his room wearing the costume Sherlock had so carefully had remade for him and the effect was everything he had hoped for. It fit John perfectly, showing off broad shoulders and a neat waist. It was an almost perfect replica of the costume from the end of the second film. Sherlock privately preferred the costume from the first film but it wasn't as though he would have been able to change it over without John and whoever had sent him the costume noticing so he had to settle for what was on offer. The dark blue material was after all rather flattering to John who was rather fairer than the film version of the character and a lot fairer than the seemly rather dark haired hobbit of the book.

The feet were a disappointment as they were really feet shaped shoes rather than the prosthetic feet of the film but Sherlock knew that if he had replaced them John would have noticed and in any case the advanced prosthetics of a film department would require professional help to put on.

As things stood John had done an admirable job of putting the tips of the ears onto his own and they were peeking out of John's hair which was, though not nearly as long as Sherlock thought it should have been at least not military issue any more. John had tried to combe it neatly but it was escaping into somewhat wild tufts around his ears and at the back of his neck.

Sherlock inspected him thoroughly. 'You are far too neat, you have been walking the wild for months.' He announced and with a concentrated look stepped up to John. He wet his hand with the tea from a discarded mug and scrounged up the collar of John's shirt in his hand, simultaneously staining it and wrinkling it. Then he took the same slightly damp hand and ruffled John's hair, making it stand on end and fall haphazardly across John's forehead.

John closed his eyes for a minute, steeling himself. 'I should have known it was a mistake to get you into Tolkien at this stage.' John sighed but he did not try to undo Sherlock's improvements of his costume.

Instead he slumped in his chair and looked with thinly veiled frustration at the pile of books on the coffee table, all of which had some kind of connection to Tolkien and particularly the hobbit. The pile was surprisingly heavy on the visual material and John tried to prevent himself from imagining Sherlock trying to picture what he would look like in his costume. Well, he didn't have to imagine any longer did he, John was right there, looking like a twat for all to see.

Still he had to admit that the costume was much better quality than he had at first thought. The fabrics were lovely, soft and natural and it fit him perfectly which was a lucky chance seeing as he wasn't exactly the same build as before getting injured and sent home. For all he knew there was a spreadsheet somewhere in the depths of Sandhurst which catalogued the average decline of the physique of a veteran after leaving active duty.

What John felt for the costume was an odd mixture of emotions. He was terribly embarrassed, angry, frustrated, yes… all of those. Yet he was also strangely proud. He had no doubt that he had been cast as Bilbo largely based on his short stature and that the evening would end up being a very long one where people would constantly point this out to him. Yet he had always liked Tolkien's books and he was not immune to the idea of being cast in the role of the title character of the book that had spawned three movies.

Hence when Jane turned up to pick him up he was in equal measures thrilled and cautious about the event ahead. He did however chuckle heartily at the costume she had stuffed herself into. Clearly she was meant to be a human, probably from Lake town but whoever had made the costumes had failed to include the fact that Jane was eight months pregnant and she had been forced to wear her own shirt under the costume in the name of decency, in order to cover her protruding belly.

John chuckled happily when he saw her which earned him a frown but Jane did not laugh at all. 'John you look amazing.' She offered instead and Sherlock who was slyly watching from the livingroom had to agree. All his efforts at upgrading the costume had been worth it. John did in fact look near perfect. To clean and neat, with feet that did not quite attach to the rest of him but otherwise very much the hobbit of the book and films. Yes Sherlock was very pleased.


	3. Chapter 3

Jane was nice, she said complimentary things about John's costume and didn't point out that the only reason he had been given it was his height. Thus the drive out to Sandhurst was rather pleasant. It took them an hour and a half but once they got out of the heavier traffic of central London it was quite pleasant.

Arriving at Sandhurst was quite a different matter. There were hundreds of people already gathered, milling about and looking ever so slightly silly in cheap nylon costumes, pretending to be human, elves or orcs. So far John had not spotted a single one of the main characters apart from himself and he felt very isolated in his hobbit costume. Despite this all of his friends clapped him on the back and told him he looked amazing which in some very small way made up for the embarrassment of being the only person with a named character.

By the time they arrived in the dining room it swiftly became obvious why John was the only person in his year with a named character. In fact, every single member of the high table apart from him had a rank far higher than him. Even the two officers assigned to portray Fili and Kili were from the 1994 graduates, although you wouldn't have been able to guess from the youthful look of the man taking the part of Kili who had clearly enthusiastically been growing his beard in an effort to look more dwarvish. Despite his youthful looks the seating chart had him listed as Lieutenant Colonel Simon James

As John read through the names of the people listed at the high table his face grew increasingly red despite his best efforts. There was a General, two Major Generals, Brigadiers, Colonels and one Major but no Captain other than John, and no one else who was not still actively in the service. John was not used to feeling inadequate but right now that was the only way to describe the awkward gut wrenching result of being type cast. Suddenly he understood just how a fictitious Bilbo Baggins must have felt when dragged from his comfortable home to share a journey with thirteen heroic dwarves and an age old wizard. Inexperienced, unfit, underqualified, even words like fat and young sprung to mind as John slowly progressed away from his friends and took the seat assigned to him.

Things didn't improve when dinner started to arrive. It would seem that whoever was in charge of planning this stupid event had seen fit to tailor the meals to the eating habits of the races that each character was portraying. This saw Oin and Legolas happily switching plates as someone had missed the fact that the Brigadier taking the part of Oin was in fact a vegetarian and wouldn't appreciate the vast store of meat that arrived for the dwarves. John grudgingly accepted the seven delicious courses served up to him in true hobbit fashion while he watched the orcs grow increasingly annoyed with being served starter, main and dessert of what looked from a distance to be some sort of meat infused gruel. Yes, John thought, this party might have been expertly designed if it had been created for a fanbased re-enactors event, but as a reunion for the military it was poorly thought through. The only thing keeping people even vaguely happy was the free bar and that would only last for a limited time, particularly when the food was being ignored in favour of a liquid diet.

John had never been more relieved than when dinner was over and he was able to Join Jane on the main floor to get a review of what had been going on in the human's section of the seating arrangement. Jane was in good spirits regaling John with stories of how the food had been appalling some elves had apparently brought better stores so it hadn't been too bad in the end.

After seven delicious courses and three large glasses of wine John was comfortably full and a bit tipsy and he found it easy enough to join his friends to commiserate about their miserable meals. Apparently the humans and elves had done well enough to at least get edible food but his two orc friends were getting rather inebriated after having been served food so inedible that they had replaced it with beer.

John tried to deflect comments about his superior meal and the fact that his costume was so much nicer than everyone else's but it was awkward and stilted and he began to long to get back to the flat and away from all this madness.

Searching Jane out to find when she was planning on leaving turned out to be the best and worst decision John had ever made. Best in the sense that he was able to get between her and the three orcs who were being far too friendly and yet not friendly enough, and worst for the same reason. He found them standing outside with Jane backed against a wall. She could normally hold her own but now she had her arms wrapped around her protruding stomach and there was actual fear in her eyes.

'Hey leave her alone.' John said in a stern tone as he stepped in front of Jane who sat down on a bench with a relieved sigh.

'Ah, if it isn't the brave little hobbit.' One of the orcs quipped. John had no idea who he was even though, judging by his age he was from the same year as John.

'Don't you know that you're supposed to stay away from orcs unless you have the dwarves to save you.' A second orc argued and this one John knew. His name was Shane and he had definitely been in John's year. Did very well in the log race but was appalling at operational tactics if John remembers correctly

'Don't be a twat Shane, I didn't choose this costume any more than you chose yours so stop being a git about it. Come on Jane let's go.' John suggested and was surprised when something poked him harshly in the back.

'I don't see why you should get all the benefits of being _The Hobbit_ but none of the drawbacks.' The first orc argued and poked John again with his not particularly sharp but very hard sword.

'This is stupid.' John argued turning away only to find Shane grabbing him by the wrist and painfully yanking him back around.

'Yes it is. Serving inedible food at the only proper reunion we'll have in ten years is stupid, and who the hell did you fuck to get into that flashy costume anyway.

'Oh, for God's sake, I didn't choose this costume. I had no say in what character to play. I accepted the invite, that's all I did. Someone else made me Bilbo.' John argues, yanking his wrist back and rubbing the abused flesh as he held it against his chest protectively

'Ah, yes, isn't it convenient, someone made you Bilbo and someone made me Bolg. Now I think it is our duty as orcs to rough him up a bit, in fact, as your commander I order it.' Came the calm voice of a fourth orc who had not been involved in pushing Jane about.

'Seb, don't. Can't you tell they're pissed, they'll think you're serious.' John argued, eyes flitting between the four orcs before him. It was not with any sense of satisfaction that he noted that Moran had in fact been cast as Bolg and had a funny metal plate affixed to his head.

They had been through the academy together and even served together yet John had not a single good memory of Sebastian Moran. Apparently since John's retirement Sebastian had found the time to get promoted to Major and thence discharged for reasons no one seemed quite able to pinpoint. It didn't much matter now however that he was in fact not the commander of the three men before him for this was a night of roleplay and the three officers seemed more than happy to play along. In fact one of them was smacking the handle of a long axe like implement against his palm in a way that was both threatening and mildly ridiculous in how stereotypical it was.

'Ah, spoilt little Halfling, all those fancy dishes making you soft? No one's said I'm not serious.' Sebastian towered over John and then with one swift movement shoved his fist into John's stomach making him double over. The blow wasn't as hard as it could have been, mostly just playacting but it still left John slightly winded.

John gasped for breath trying to come up with something placating to say to stay Sebastian's attack, but it was too late, the blow had been a signal to the three orcs who had previously been accosting Jane and they lay into John enthusiastically.

They poked and prodded, dancing around John in a clumsy fashion, taunting him by hitting him from different angles. Never causing real damage but inflicting enough pain to be unpleasant.

'Pretty little hobbit, not so tough without his dwarves.' Shean taunted and there was a sparkle in his eye, he was enjoying playing the bully.

'Hasn't even got that sparkly little sword of his, letter opener they called it didn't they.' A second orc tried and it was quite true, John had left his little sting replica up at the high table, seeing no reason to lug it about.

'That's enough.' John tried to sound stern, he had his breath back now and he certainly was not going to let these idiots push him about. He was not a hobbit, thank you very much, he was Captain John Watson and he would not stand for this.

'Not nearly.' The sword wielding orc grinned. 'You got the lead part, now learn to act.' He slurred and this time when he poked John with it he was less careful and it really hurt. John hissed and pushed the sword away, grateful that it wasn't sharp.

'Don't be a spoil sport.' Shean huffed and clipped John across the shoulder with his weapon making John see red. Shean wasn't a friend but John was pretty sure that he knew about John getting shot and as a quick painful spike, ran like electricity down John's arm making his fingers twitch involuntarily he turned and swung with his right hand, relishing the feeling of Shean's nose breaking under his fingers even if he knew his knuckles would be sore for days after a blow like that.

As soon as he pulls back he knows it has been foolhardy to think he could take on all of them in an actual fight, the other two orcs are on him instantly. He caught the strange implement that served as a weapon for the first orc but instantly the sword landed across his back and he hissed in pain loosing his grasp on the weapon. He tried to get his left arm to cooperate but his movements feel slow and sluggish and he knows this is a loosing battle. All he can hope for is that someone will take pity on him and break this whole thing up.

A fist to the temple sent him to the ground. He could hear Laura yelling for help as he tried to push himself back up. A foot hit his knee and it twisted under him sending him back to the ground and then there were more feet. He threw his arms up in an attempt at protecting himself but it was not enough, he wondered fleetingly if they were actually trying to kill him.

John was grateful that the weapons they wielded were fake and the metal in their armour really plastic but it still hurt and the force of their blows and kicks were no less because their armour was fake.

He fought back, of course he did. Some of the blood on his hands was from Shean's broken nose and when the sword wielding orc bent down to pull John up he managed to grab him by the neck and slam his head into the ground, but there were three of them and he didn't stand a chance.

Once on the ground he was an easy target. He can tell that Shean is intentionally targeting his bad side. He's on all fours trying to push himself up when a well-aimed kick to his shoulder sends him toppling over onto his back letting out an unintentional yelp of pain. One of the men stomps down on John's wrist which is lying limply next to him and John knows this is no longer in any way a play fight. They will end up killing him at this rate, or at least causing serious damage.

There were too many hands and feet and fake weapons to fight at once and when one of them decided to get creative and turned his axe around ramming the handle, small end down, into John's chest John thought he might actually pass out. He curls up in a foetal position trying to protect his head but it isn't really working very well. He can't breath, he can't think and he certainly can't get up and fight back. He just lies there noting each blow as they land across his back, his arms, his legs, anywhere that's exposed. The only clear thought he has is that this is really ironic. He survived the war, he survived Moriarty and now he'll end up beaten to death in a drunken brawl gone awry.

'Stop this instant. Leave the hobbit alone.' A stern voice called out and someone stepped in front of John pushing his attackers backward. It was Gandalf. John was sure that the man had a name of his own and that it included a lofty title, possibly Major General but seeing as he wasn't wearing his uniform it was hard to tell and John couldn't remember. Still, his commanding tone was clearly that of a seasoned officer and he filled the part of Gandalf very well as he rammed his staff down on the floor in a move very reminiscent of that which the orc had made against John's chest, and made John's attackers stumble back. One of them took that particular moment to crumple to the ground clutching his head which John had smashed against the floor only moments earlier.

'Who here is sober?' Gandalf boomed as he kneeled beside John who was gasping and heaving, trying to force himself into a sitting position.

'I am sir.' Came the swift reply from Jane and Sebastian simultaneously

'Moran, take those two to A&amp;E.' he ordered indicating Shean with his broken nose and the man who's head John had smashed into the floor. The third orc-officer seemed to have escaped unscathed as had Sebastian who after the first blow had stepped back and watched the fight from the sidelines. Watson do you need an ambulance or can Brennan take you to the hospital?' Gandalf, who wasn't really Gandalf, asked pressing a napkin to John's bleeding head.'

'No ambulance sir.' John mumbled hissing as he took over pressing the napkin against his head. 'Jane… ermh Captain Brennan can take me.'

'Ok, let me see you stand before I believe that.' The Major General said extending a hand to John. John reached out his right hand and allowed himself to be pulled upright. It hurt, more than it should do. His head spun, his chest ached, his left arm was screaming for attention and his right knee only barely held his weight. If it had been anyone else he would have told them to sit still and wait for an ambulance. Since it wasn't anyone else he accepted Jane's offered arm and limped along to the car cheeks burning with embarrassment. There was absolutely no way he was going to go to A&amp;E dressed as a hobbit and admitting to being beaten up by a pack of orcs, absolutely not.


	4. Chapter 4

John arrived home earlier than Sherlock would have expected. When he heard the key in the door he was honestly surprised, something which he didn't experience very often. Then came the hesitant limping step of someone in pain and Sherlock knew something had gone very wrong at John's reunion. If John was limping he was either very upset or injured, neither of which was a good thing.

Sherlock opened the door and took in the sight of John struggling up the stairs. Except it wasn't John any longer, it was Bilbo, after the end of the battle, complete with a head wound and a tormented look in his eyes, hair standing on end and matted with blood, the costume was finally complete.

Over an hour sitting still in the car had done John's injuries no favours and he now hurt terribly, his left wrist and right knee particularly were giving him problems and it was painful enough to breathe that John knew he really needed a chest x-ray. He rather suspected that once he made it there he would be all night in A&amp;E, if only he could get out of this damn costume. First however he was going to need to sit down for a minute because if he didn't he was almost certainly going to be sick again. He had upset Jane by making her stop the car twice on the way back so that he could be sick at the side of the road. So much for the nice seven course meal. Jane had been very worried but John had placated her by saying that it was just the shock of the evenings events getting to him, his head didn't hurt too badly and his vision was absolutely fine. These were of course blatant lies but Jane didn't need to know that his head throbbed with every minute bump of the car and that while there certainly weren't several of Jane when he looked at her she didn't have very distinct edges either.

'What happened?' Sherlock asked as John limped past him and collapsed in his chair.

'Would you believe me if I said I was attacked by orcs.' John asked with a hint of irony in his voice. 'Orc officers, bloody stupid, ignorant officer orcs.' John mumbled, more to himself than to Sherlock.

Sherlock ventured into the kitchen and returned to his flatmate carrying a first aid kit and a camera. He started snapping photos of John from every angle and John just watched him do it in bewilderment. 'In case you want to press charges. Stand up.' Sherlock explains without John even having to ask. John blinks at him but struggles to his feet standing by the fire and allowing Sherlock to snap the camera at him as he leans against the mantelpiece.

When Sherlock finally stops taking pictures John gratefully slumps back into the chair with a pained hiss. 'You know Sherlock…' John's face contorts unattractively but he makes no noise, just hesitates in his speech for a few seconds '…if I actually wanted to press charges I would need pictures of the bruises not of me wearing a silly costume.' He continued.

Putting aside the camera Sherlock kneels before John. He ignores John's comment, he is not about to admit that in fact the image of John as he was right now was too good not to be documented. He knew John was hurt and he didn't like that, of course he didn't, but in so many ways John wasn't John right now, he was _The Hobbit_ and the part of Sherlock that still occasionally allowed himself

Oin all at the same time to the little Halfling, nursing him back to health. Except of course there was enough left of sensible Sherlock to know that he was being ridiculous and that it wasn't Bilbo, it was John sitting before him, and one did not simply scoop John up, not unless one wanted a black eye.

'Now John, tell me where you're hurt and how badly. You've hit your head, it's been bleeding, you've got blood all over your coat, are you concussed?' Sherlock asked trying for a sensible approach.

'Yes…' John answered hesitantly touching his head gingerly 'I've been sick, might be because Moran punched my stomach or because I've got bruised ribs but it hurts too, really hurts.' John mumbles.

'Which does, head, stomach or ribs?' Sherlock inquires.

'All of them, Arm and knee are worse though, I don't think my knee is broken but I can't be sure about the arm, might have to have it x-rayed.' John mumbled and Sherlock stares at him in surprise.

'John, if you think someone broke your arm why are you here and not in and emergency room?' Sherlock asked softly as he gently pried John's hand away from his chest to have a look.

'I couldn't, not looking like this. Can you imagine the headlines. Just the three orcs turning up will make a stir, can you imagine what an injured hobbit in full costume would do for the local paper, particularly arriving from Sandhurst?' John asked quietly and then hissed as Sherlock pulled his sleeve up to look at his wrist. It was terribly swollen and turning blue on the outside. He had put ice on it just after the fight but it had not been enough. He could move his fingers a little which was positive but doing so was pure torture which meant it might still be broken. Still it might be at least partly because of the blow to his shoulder. He honestly couldn't tell.

'I need to shower and change, then I can go to A&amp;E.' John explained and Sherlock nodded.

'I'll run you a bath, something tells me you're in no shape to stand in the shower trying to wash.' Sherlock offered disappearing off to the bathroom. He was not exactly happy to remove the costume that so perfectly fitted John but John was so obviously in pain that he felt a need to help his friend.

Filling the bath with warm water he was contemplating the benefits and drawbacks of adding bath salt to the water when he heard a loud thump and John swearing vigorously from the livingroom and he deduced that John must have fallen. John was hurt, John had fallen, there was an odd strain to the words John was yelling hence it wasn't a far leap to deducing that John was in pain and needed help.

Sherlock swept out of the bathroom and soon found John sat on the floor poking at a swollen knee with his uninjured hand. In fact now Sherlock looked more closely, uninjured was probably an overstatement. John's pinky looked rather like a cocktail sausage.

The easiest way to get John into the bathroom would be to carry him but Sherlock was entirely convinced that John would not appreciate this. Instead Sherlock shoved an arm under John's and hoisted him up, supporting him into the bathroom. In the brief trip from the livingroom floor to the bathroom John went from an embarrassed bright red to a pained stark white.

Are you sure about this John? Sherlock asked looking his friend over. If walking was that painful undressing and bathing seemed a really bad idea.

Definitely. I might need a bit of help though.' John admitted as he started to undo his belt.

'I'll get you a towel.' Sherlock offered, 'And some ice.' He added with a sigh. He wasn't quite sure which part of John's body he intended said ice to aid, at the moment it was a draw between his wrist, his knee and his head and lord knew what else he would find when they got under the layers of clothing.

When Sherlock returned John had managed to remove the coat, feet and ears and was currently trying to lift the shirt up without hurting himself, something which was proving very difficult.

'Let me help.' Sherlock offered dumping the towel and bag of ice in the sink and crouching next to John. He carefully eased John's right arm out of the shirt pulled it over his head and proceeded to move it gently off John's left arm careful of the injured shoulder and wrist.

Despite his care John clenched his teeth and his breath involuntarily hitched several times as he tried to help Sherlock get the infernal garment off. Already bruises were starting to appear and everything seemed to hurt.

The thrill of watching John turn up in the dirty and bloody costume was pretty much washed away with the removal of his coat and shirt. Without the costume Bilbo faded away and it was once again John sitting before him, wearing trousers that were too short for him, looking in equal parts furious and miserable.

John's arms were covered in red welts where he had tried to fend off blows from weapons Sherlock could vividly imagine after having watched the films so many times. His hair was matted with blood which had collected in the shell of his ear and run down his neck. His shoulder was swollen as was his wrist and bruises were developing along his back and side. In the middle of his chest was an odd swollen circle with an indentation in the middle which was growing increasingly discoloured.

'Did they try to stab you with something?' Sherlock asked running his thumb over the swelling so carefully John could barely feel it.

'Not unless you count trying to impale me with the blunt handle of a fake axe as trying to stab me. I do think the implement needs to be sharp for it to count as stabbing.' John tried to chuckle to lighten the mood but it hurt and he quickly cut himself off.

Sherlock was about to correct him, informing that in fact it was the act of forcing an implement into something that defined a stabbing and not the sharpness of the object and that he had in fact said 'tried to stab' thus indicating their obvious failure. In fact he already had his mouth open to do so when something, something eerily reminiscent of John's voice, told him that this wasn't the time.

'Can you stand?' he asked instead, reaching over to turn off the water in the bathtub.

'I walked from the car didn't I.' John huffed slightly but it was obviously an effort to get up and once on his feet John gripped onto the sink, closing his eyes and breathing shallowly. He opened his eyes but stared fixedly into the folds of the shower curtain as Sherlock undid his trousers and let them drop to the floor. Sherlock's fingers were already gripping the elastic of his boxers when John realised what he was doing and tried to pull away.

'Leave them on.' He snapped as he wobbled and sat down on the toilet again with a heavy thump.

'Since when are you prudish John?' Sherlock asked and despite the state his friend was in he couldn't help but smile a little at the deep blush creeping up John's neck.

'Since today, now either help me into that bath or make yourself scarce.' John said and his voice allowed for no debate.

'You do know that the best way for me to do that is to lift you in, don't you? Your knee will never let you step into the bath and lower yourself down.' Sherlock said and John wasn't sure if he was relieved or furious that there was no hint of taunting in Sherlock's voice, just genuine concern. If in fact it was genuine, how could you even tell with Sherlock.

John just sat there for a moment. Looking between the drawn bath with its far too high edges and his ballooning knee. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, nodded once and offered Sherlock a curt 'Fine.'

To his credit Sherlock did not mock. He merely stood and stripped out of his shirt, hanging it over a towel hook. Then he bent down next to John and hesitated for a few seconds. 'I fear this will hurt.' He said apologetically as he slipped one arm around John's back and the other under his knees, expertly lifting him up using ergonomical precision.

John clenched his teeth but made no sound. He merely wrapped his right arm awkwardly around Sherlock's neck and promised himself that if Sherlock ever mentioned this moment he was going to claim to have no memory of it, concussions were good for some things.

When Sherlock lowered John into the tub he could feel him tensing, his breath increasing, then as Sherlock slowly let him go he gradually relaxed somewhat. Yet he sat with his back rigidly straight, left arm pressed against his chest and right hand clenched around the bathtubs edge.

Sherlock sat back and watched John who sat absolutely still. Something fierce entered John's eyes and then they suddenly went glassy wet before John squeezed them shut. His grip on the bath grew even tighter and very fine tremors ran through his shoulders.

Sherlock eyed the angry marks on John's back, his laboured breathing and the tension in his right arm and suddenly realised that John wasn't going to be able to wash himself. He needed his good arm to hold himself upright and he needed to sit up because his back wouldn't allow him to lean against the hard tub and his bruised chest wouldn't allow him to lean forward or his breathing would be compromised. Yet he was clearly stubbornly trying to come up with a way to get clean without asking for help.

Sherlock didn't comment. He merely reached for a flannel, dipped it in the water and began to wash John's back. John kept his eyes closed and said nothing as Sherlock carefully washed the blood and grime away. The soap stung and the swollen knee and wrist throbbed with the warmth of the water but at least he felt marginally more like himself. Sherlock had draped the bag of ice over his shoulder so that felt a little better.

Keeping his eyes closed helped somewhat with the horrible embarrassment at having his best friend wash him like a helpless toddler. To his credit Sherlock was both gentle and efficient and soon John was clean.

'Right all de-hobbited.' Sherlock said as he pulled the plug in the bath. 'I'll get you some clothes. Meanwhile hold this to your head, it's bleeding again.' Sherlock offered holding out a towel and John finally looked up.

'Thanks he said simply as he took the towel. Sitting up without the hand to stabilise him was just as painful as he had thought it would be. He found his breathing growing more laboured with each breath. It didn't quite feel like broken ribs, he'd had those before but it certainly felt like broken something. He knew without trying that he would not be able to lift his left hand to hold the towel so he simply had to give up. Dropping the towel beside him he grasped onto the tub again. Soon he could feel the warm trickle of blood down his face. So, it seemed he would have to settle for sensibly dressed and not covered in dirt, unbloody was not to be had today.

When Sherlock returned the water had drained from the tub and John was sitting in an empty tub shivering in the cold air with a concerned look on his face. There was the acrid smell of bile in the bathroom and a sticky puddle next to the bathtub.

'Oh.' Is all Sherlock said as he draped a towel around John.

'Need A&amp;E now.' John said weakly. 'I'm getting worse' Sherlock felt a lump in his throat at John's words.

'Worse as in we need to get going or worse as in I need to call an ambulance?' Sherlock asked and John gave him a faint smile.

'No ambulance if I can stand. Worse as in I can't move my hand and it really hurts to breathe. With your taxi hailing skills a taxi will be as fast as an ambulance anyway. You're going to have to lift me out again though.' John didn't like having to say it but it is the unfortunate truth. There was absolutely no way that he would be able to stand up on his own.

'Of course.' Sherlock bent down and John draped his good arm around his neck again as Sherlock carefully lift him out of the tub. It hurt and John's face involuntarily scrounged up in a grimace. He leant his head against Sherlock's bare shoulder for a second breathing shallowly. He wasn't aware of Sherlock carrying him out of the bathroom until they were already halfway into the living room.

'Where are you going? Put me down.' It was meant to be demanding but his voice was breathy and weak.

'The sofa, it will make putting your clothes on easier.' Sherlock explained before carefully laying John down and returning to the bathroom for the clothes. When he returned John was still lying still and quiet on the sofa, his eyes closed and the injured knee propped up on the armrest. Sherlock's never seen John like this before. He's seen him injured or frightened or upset. John is rather prone to emotions but something was different today. He would never say it so John could hear but the word Sherlock would use to describe him was fragile. John actually looked broken and Sherlock wasn't sure if it was because something in John has changed or because Sherlock was viewing him in a different light. He was aware that the hobbit costume had done something to him, had changed his view of his flatmate in some way.

He kneeled down next go John 'I'm going to get some socks and sweatpants on you, ok.' Sherlock informed before he started to slip John's feet into the socks he'd picked up. He noted in frustration that John's right ankle was ever so slightly swollen. John probably hadn't even noticed but Sherlock could tell the difference between the two feet. He slipped the sweatpants on carefully, observing how John tensed when he lifted the injured leg to get them on.

'You need to sit up John.' Sherlock informed hesitantly.

John grimaced and held out his good arm for Sherlock to take while he stares ahead with glazed eyes.

Sherlock grabbed John's arm at the elbow and wrapped his own arm around John's neck trying to ease him into a sitting position.

It took five minutes to get John into a flannel shirt at which point they were both frustrated.

Sherlock eyed John's jacket which he had brought in with him and decided against it. Instead he grabbed the throw from John's chair and draped it around John's shoulders

'John are you going to kick up a fuss if I suggest you let me carry you down the stairs?' he asked and John flushed, whether from embarrassment or anger Sherlock couldn't tell.

'Yes I am.' John stated calmly and Sherlock just sighed. John's stubbornness certainly led to stupidity at times.

Slowly and arduously they got John to his feet and began the painful journey back downstairs. Sherlock kept expecting John to give up and allow him to aid his descent in a more painless manner but John did not. He allowed Sherlock to walk beside him and support most of his weight but he did not relent or even complain. Sherlock, however, could feel the increased tremors running through his back and hear the way his breaths were turning more laboured.

It turns out that hailing a cab was distinctly less effective when you were supporting a clearly injured man wrapped in a blanket. Particularly as people kept coming up asking them if they need help. Sherlock shooed them away with snarky comments of 'Obviously, but not from you.' or 'Only if you're a taxi driver or an A&amp;E doctor.' And they all quickly scuttled off but it was distracting

When they were finally in the cab Sherlock opened his mouth to inform John that he was decidedly wrong when he said that a taxi would be as fast as an ambulance. It had taken them half an hour to get John dressed, down the stairs and into a taxi, they would be at the hospital long ago if John would have let him call an ambulance. However, he hadn't even uttered the first syllable when John suddenly leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder with a soft sigh and the words died in his throat. He could feel the soft trembling which indicates pain and possibly mild shock and the uneven breathing which hitched and stuttered in John's chest every time the cab took a sharper turn or hits a bump in the road.


	5. Chapter 5

Once they reached UCLH's A&amp;E department Sherlock paid the cabbie and carefully helped manoeuvre John out of the cab and into the hospital. There was a line for the sign in desk and as soon as they reach it Sherlock started to argue with the other patients trying to impress on them how much John clearly needed help much more than they with their broken arm and ear infection.

'Sherlock, Don't. Please I can…' John tried to argue. The attention was making him flush slightly crimson but then there were spots dancing before his eyes and Sherlock's rant seemed very far away. 'Sherlock…' John tried again but not angrily this time, just desperately 'I'm going to…' and then the world tilted and slipped away entirely and John was a boneless weight in Sherlock's arms.

That does the trick. Someone was yelling and pressing an alarm as Sherlock lowered John to the floor. Nurses swarmed out into the waiting room and someone was following with a cot.

'What's his name?' an experienced nurse who clearly has just been through a divorce but isn't letting it affect her work, asked Sherlock.

'John.' he answers simply. 'He was beaten up two hours ago at a party. His arm and knee are swelling, the arms possibly broken. He's been complaining of nausea and chest pains when breathing.' Sherlock relayed.

'Stupid man, she should have come in straight away.' A young man offered unhelpfully and Sherlock and the nurse scowled at him in almost equal measure.

'John, John can you hear me?' the nurse asked which elicited a slight groan from John. 'That's good, open your eyes for me.' She urged and slowly, arduously he complies. A male medic was trying to strap a neck brace onto him and John blinked up in confusion when the face hovering above him wasn't Sherlock but a skinny blond boy who looked barely out of school.

'Don't need that…' John whispered 'Neck n back are fine. Need x-rays, arm, chest and knee. Mm.. n a CT scan.' He continued'.

The nurse actually chuckled a little 'A doctor are you?' she asked, half serious, half joking. They got a lot of patients in who thought they could self-diagnose.

'Dr John Watson.' John smiled up at her, Christ even while barely conscious John was capable of flirting Sherlock noted in amazement.

'Nice to meet you Dr Watson, I'm Nadia. We're going to get you up off the floor now John. Your friend and I are going to help you. Very carefully, we don't want to hurt you any more.' The nurse suggested and Sherlock decided that she was passably competent, which was the best they're likely to get. They got John up on the cot which has been lowered next to him and he sank back gratefully on its paper cover. 'Right, you stay and fill out the paperwork, we'll be just round the corner, I'm going to get the doctor to sign off on those x-rays and get John here some oxygen and if the doctor will allow it some pain relief.' Nurse Nadia pointed Sherlock back to where the queue for the sign in office had dwindled.

Sherlock was about to protest when a soft 'Please Sherlock!' From John made him relent and stride over to the window, watching in frustration as John was wheeled away.

It took Sherlock far too long to explain to the woman behind the counter why John had travelled from Sandhurst to central London and then taken a bath before finally bothering to make his way to A&amp;E. He had the distinct feeling that John would not appreciate him revealing the whole beaten up by orcs whilst wearing a hobbit costume.

Yet when she started talking of councillors and washing away evidence making a conviction harder he had to compromise and reveal at least a bit of the truth lest they get entirely the wrong end of the stick. For just the briefest of moments he allowed himself to entertain the idea that she might be right. He remembers John's insistence to keep his boxers on but quickly dismissed it. There had been no signs of restraint. They had not held John down, they had beaten him.

Therefore Sherlock swiftly slammed on the breaks before the woman could pass her misunderstanding on to anyone else and start nasty rumours. 'He was not raped.' Sherlock hissed at her. 'He was ashamed of his Halloween costume. Nothing more.' The woman looked sceptical but nodded. Sherlock could see the wheels of her mind start to turn, wondering what kind of costume might have first gotten John beaten up and then made him so embarrassed that despite barely being able to stand he went home to shower and change before coming to A&amp;E. He didn't need much of an imagination to conceive of a few options for the kind of pictures which may be filling her head, almost certainly mainly of a sexual or degrading nature. People were so pedestrian. He was entirely certain that the beautifully crafted hobbit costume that now lay abandoned on their bathroom floor was not one of the options she was debating. Sherlock glowers threateningly at her and with an amused smirk she finally gave him the all clear to go find John.


	6. Chapter 6

'Dr John Watson?' He asked the first nurse he encountered as he was let into the restricted area.

'Ah yes.' She said with a sweet smile, clearly John had already worked his magic. 'We gave him something for the pain, he's asleep in exam room four.' He'll be taken down to have a CT scan in a few minutes' she informed Sherlock who took off to find exam room four without so much as a thank you.

John was lying on his side, with his uninjured knee drawn up under him. His shirt and trousers had been removed and deposited in the basket under the cot but someone had covered him with the throw which Sherlock had draped around him in lieu of a coat. It took away some of the hospital atmosphere and brought back just a hint of the magic of earlier that night. John was still decidedly John and not Bilbo but his hair was tousled and bloody and if Sherlock ignores the nasal cannula that fed John extra oxygen he might just be able to imagine those pointy ears back and pretend that underneath that blanket was hidden overly large feet and overly short trousers.

He reached out a hand and lets it hover above John. He wanted to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder but it was swollen and turning blue around the pink of the scar tissue and he didn't want to cause John any more pain. Instead he let it land on top of John's head, not smoothing down the drying hair but rather running his fingers gently through it and making it stand on end again. Being so long it behaved in ways that John's hair never normally would when he had it cut the way he usually liked. It is soft and damp against Sherlock's fingers and oddly nice. He's never done this before, never run his fingers through someone's hair just for the sake of it. He's carded through the hair of enough corpses looking for evidence but that was different, that was about reason and logic, this is all sentiment and Sherlock cringes at the idea of Mycroft seeing him behaving in such a fashion.

The wound on the side of John's head had stopped bleeding but the gold and silver of John's hair has been tarnished a rusty brown below it. Sherlock looked at it trying to determine its cause and effect. Almost certainly caused by a long thin implement. Will need a minimum of eight stitches and almost certainly the reason for John's concussion. If John was dead it might have been a plausible cause of death and that is most certainly not an avenue of thought that he wants to venture down.

John let out an unpleasant wheezing noise and moved slightly under the blanket. Sherlock removed his hand as though he'd been burnt.

'John, can you hear me?' Sherlock asked carefully.

'Mm, hear you fine.' John mumbles as a hand appears from under the blanket to lightly grasp Sherlock's wrist. 'Keep doing that. It hurts less.' John whispered and Sherlock hesitates torn between returning to his previous carding through John's hair and telling him that there is absolutely no way that bruises and broken bones could possibly hurt less because someone is touching your hair. To his amazement he settles for the first even though he knows it is desperately out of character.

'They said they're coming to take you for a scan in a minute' He informs and John makes an undistinguishable noise in response.

'What's that John, what's wrong?' Sherlock knows it is potentially a really stupid question to be asking a man who lies beaten and broken in a hospital bed but it slips out automatically.

'Hm, nothing's wrong, feel good. Fluffy' John mumbled softly and despite the situation Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle.

'Fluffy? They've got you on the good drugs then?' he asked with a smirk and John nodded slightly in response.

'Mm very good. Can I go to sleep now?' John's voice is soft, hesitant. Sherlock has never seen John high before, and for obvious reasons he's never actually seen himself when high. He wonders if he looks and sounds as vulnerable as John does right now. If he does he rather abhors the idea. As much as he has embarrassingly enjoyed vulnerable, hobbit like John he does not like the idea that he himself might ever look that way.

Yet for once Sherlock's deductive powers are slightly off kilter. He doesn't see what the nurse sees as she enters the room to find John asleep and Sherlock stood over him one hand on John's hip and the other carding through his hair whispering silent curses to the quiet room about what he intends to do to the men who did this. If he had, he would know that John wasn't the only one looking vulnerable at that moment in time.


	7. Chapter 7

It took four hours and thirty-two minutes from the point they enter A&amp;E until John was safely tucked away in a private hospital room. He didn't look like a hobbit any longer, rather, Sherlock mused, like a half put together mummy. The bandages were, however, much less appealing than the hobbit costume. The mummy look did not suit John at all.

Listening to the verdict Sherlock had felt slightly sickened. He couldn't imagine how John remained on his feet for two hours before he finally collapsed. He had got a broken collarbone, a fractured wrist three broken ribs and a hairline fracture to his sternum. His knee wasn't broken but there was a significant amount of muscle damage and something about a damaged tendon. The CT scan was showing minor swelling though no bleeding and John had so far been able to answer the nurses silly questions and the doctor didn't seem to concerned when he made John follow his finger and shone a bright little light in his eyes even though John had winced and scrunched his eyes shut at the latter. The bruises hardly seemed worth mentioning in the scheme of things and the doctor didn't even though they stood out, painting a stark relief against John's pale skin. They would heal with relatively little trouble after all.

Sherlock sat and waited as John slept. He'd already texted Lestrade to have the men responsible arrested. There had been no reply but seeing as it was the middle of the night Sherlock wasn't surprised. He was a little surprised that no one has tried to enforce visiting hours on him. They all seemed to accept him sitting in the chair next to John silently observing the comings and goings.

To his credit he was being very good. He had been unusually restrained with his deductions, especially considering his insides were boiling. He was furiously angry with the men who had dared to do this to John, more even than that though, he was angry with himself, angry that he had taken joy in seeing John come hope in this state. In his defence he hadn't known it was quite this bad, not until he had started getting John's clothes off and not even really then. Sherlock knew the force needed to fracture someone's sternum, that was some beating John must have taken.

It's five thirty in the morning when Sherlock's phone finally buzzed with Lestrade at the other end. He sounded worried, demanding more information and Sherlock directed him to the hospital in Ashford where the evil orcs had almost certainly gone to get their scrapes tended to.

John kept waking up, mumbling rather incoherently and then falling asleep again and Sherlock was growing increasingly bored. He considered going back to Baker Street but enough of John's social manners have rubbed off on him that he knows that when ones best friend is laid up in hospital, beaten to within an inch of his life it was customary to want to stay at his side, and despite the boredom he found he rather did want to stay.

For some reason that Sherlock didn't quite understand but John would probably be able to explain John wasn't allowed to eat breakfast. Instead a tired looking nurse who was doing the latest round of asking inane questions to ascertain the state of John's head set him up with a drip assuring him that he'd feel better once he'd got some nutrition in him. John grumbled that he would rather have tea and toast but the frown lines eased away somewhat when the drip had been feeding into his hand for a few minutes so the woman was probably right.

Slowly and hesitantly John told Sherlock the story of the previous night's disastrous reunion. The medication had made him even less coherent than usual and Sherlock couldn't help that his eyebrows shot up when John referred to his attackers as orcs and his rescuer as Gandalf. It would seem that even if John didn't want to be referred to as a hobbit himself he didn't mind treating others in the same way.

Before John had time to finish a doctor arrived with a ready smile and a cheery 'Good morning, how are you feeling today?'

'Like someone has given me a very generous dose of morphine. Can we hold back a bit on that?' John asked and the doctor chuckled.

'That's your call John. I'm doctor Abrahams. I'm here to see how you're doing.' The doctor continued and when John nodded he proceeded to prod and poke each injured limb in turn. He left John's broken arm to last and Sherlock had a feeling it was a conscious move to save the worst for last. He'd noticed how John had been eyeing the cast with a look that suggests it had personally offended him.

'Good, very good.' Dr Abrahams praised John as he successfully wiggled the toes of his injured leg without so much as a grimace. 'You'll be up and walking around in no time. Now your hand, can you touch your thumb to each of your fingers in turn, like this.' He continued, showing John his own long thin fingers and touching them one at a time with his thumb.

'No.' John said simply and his face went from gently smiling to a frustrated frown in the blink of an eye.

'Why not?' Abrahams asked gently.

'I already tried, I can't.' John said and there was something thick and uncomfortable about his voice.

'Ah, well, would you try again for me.' Abrahams smiled but the smile was less genuine than a minute ago.

John gave a short nod and looks down at the hand resting on his stomach. His annoyed scowl clearly showed how little he wanted to do this. Sherlock and Abrahams watched closely as John clenched his jaw and his thumb twitched. As the thumb made a jerky move to copy doctor Abrahams movement the fingers did not move at all.

Abrahams nodded slowly. 'Ok John, that's good.' He said and gently took hold of the hand without moving the cast that held it fixed. 'Now tell me if you can feel this.' He took out a needle and pricked John's fingers one at a time.

'Yes, yes, I think so, No.' John answered obediently. Both Sherlock and Dr Abrahams could see the concern reflected in John's glassy eyes.

'It doesn't mean anything' Abrahams reassured. 'It will almost certainly sort itself out when the swelling goes down. There's no need for concern yet.' He argued but John did not look convinced. Still he nodded his understanding. Abrahams gave his good shoulder a reassuring squeeze. 'I'll see you again tomorrow.' He confirmed Sherlock's suspicions that John would not be discharged that day before he exited the room, leaving behind a dense silence.

'Get out.' John snapped.

'John, really… you should…' Sherlock tried but John wasn't having it.

'No Sherlock, go get a coffee, I can't just now.' John's voice was strained, thick with supressed emotion. Sherlock didn't particularly think leaving him alone was the best of ideas, yet he got up and left. He did not however go to get a coffee. Instead he leaned his back against the door and listened to the long list of creative profanities faintly audible through the closed door. He convinced himself it wasn't really eavesdropping. After all the door was thoroughly closed, it was the thinness of the door and the volume of John's swearing that allowed him to listen to John using a highly colourful language to express his emotions.

He jumped somewhat when something crashed into the wall next to the door. By the sound of it most likely the mug in which a nurse had brought Sherlock tea during the night. Well, it was a better choice than John's mobile which would have been the other plausible object within John's reach.

Everything went very silent for a minute and Sherlock contemplated going back inside. Maybe John's tantrum had played itself out. Then and infinitely more disturbing noise came from inside the room. A thin wailing sound was followed by muffled sobs and Sherlock didn't need deductive powers to figure out that John was crying. Strong, stoic John who never cries is sobbing loud enough for the sound to travel through a closed door.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock has seen John cry a grand total of two times. Seen and not heard was the true description of both occasions because twice, in response to bereavement has he watched John shed silent tears which he would hide and wipe away seemingly uncomfortable with the display of emotions.

If John had been uncomfortable then Sherlock was rather uncomfortable now. How to deal with a distressed flatmate was not something he had tucked away in any easily accessible corner of his mind-palace. Two files of vaguely similar nature came to mind, namely how did mummy deal with distraught children, and how did John deal with distressed girlfriends and clients. Both involved an inordinate amount of promising that things would be alright, which was either blatantly obvious or patently unprovable. Along with this often went meaningless assurances that the speaker was in fact there, which was so obvious it was truly superfluous to mention it. Als more often than not a lot of touching was involved, hugging in the case of the children and the girlfriends and sometimes even the clients, but sometimes, particularly with adult male clients just little touches, the grasping of a hand or shoulder swiftly followed by an offer of tea.

If asked why he went back in the room at that point Sherlock would have said that it was in fact an experiment, designed to test out these various methods but in reality there was an obvious excess of emotion which he, unlike John, couldn't blame on drugs. Possibly it might also have had something to do with the memory of last night, of the strangely pleasant feeling of John's hair under his hand and John's reaction to said ministrations.

Regardless of the reason he slipped back into John's room. He hesitated for the briefest of moments taking in the scene before him. John, still half sat up with the raised bed, had rolled over onto his side and curled up as much as his body would allow. He had part of his right hand stuffed into his mouth, presumably in an ineffective attempt to stifle the sobs. His eyes were pressed shut but that didn't stop tears from leaking out and rolling down his cheeks. It looked very uncomfortable particularly considering the fact that John was thoroughly bruised and seems to be struggling to breath.

He didn't notice that Sherlock approached until Sherlock was right up by the bed. Then his eyes flew open, startled, and he made a strangled noise. Sherlock was ready for John to turn angry, to shout at him about privacy but he didn't. He didn't say anything, just closed his eyes again and pressed his face back into the pillow.

Sherlock tentatively reached his hands out and copied the motion from last night. Stroking John's hair softly he placed the other hand on John's arm squeezing lightly and waited to see if there was any noticeable lessening in John's distress. There wasn't, instead John removed the hand from his mouth, covered his eyes with it and cried harder.

'Just an experiment' Sherlock reminded himself before he leant forward and carefully wrapped his arms awkwardly around John. 'It's ok, you'll be fine.' He tried and while John didn't respond he sat up a bit more so that Sherlock could properly wrap his arms around him and leant forward to rest his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

John's hair was soft against Sherlock's cheek and his tears damp against his collarbone. John was warm where their bodies pressed together while the damp patch caused by the tears was cold. It was an odd sensation and felt rather different than it had being hugged by mummy and daddy as a child. Somehow it managed to be both pleasant and unpleasant at the same time. It made him feel awkward and John's distress was as close to upsetting as things ever really got and yet at the same time John was soft and warm and something else that Sherlock couldn't quite define. How he loathed not knowing things. And yet he did know that there was a warmth in his chest that wasn't physical when John no longer hid his face behind his hand but instead leant in closer and wrapped his arm around Sherlock's chest hugging back.

'It's alright, I'm here.' Sherlock tried on for size and the sob coming from John might just have border on a slight huff of a laugh. 'You'll be well soon and until then I'll get the takeaways and make you tea.' He promised, wondering to himself if there was really any way that he was going to be able to live up to that promise. There was definitely a slight chuckle from John at that though so saying it must have been the right thing to do.

Slowly John went quiet and Sherlock had started considering the experiment complete. He was rubbing John's neck and contemplating when would be the appropriate time to let go when there was a knock on the door which then immediately opened to reveal Lestrade.


	9. Chapter 9

Lestrade was used to storming into 221B without warning and so it never really occurred to him that he might need to signal his arrival in any major way. It was a surprise then when he entered John's hospital room to find the two flatmates wrapped up in a tight embrace, John's head resting on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock whispering something into John's unruly hair.

'Oh, sorry. I didn't… sorry.' He mumbled awkwardly, torn between staring and looking away.

'Lestrade. Have you arrested them?' Sherlock said as he stepped back, released John and completely ignored the awkward tension in the room. John flushed crimson and wiped at the tears on his cheeks. The drugs may have made him more prone to show his emotions but they did not prevent him from feeling embarrassed at being caught out.

Lestrade's eyes went wide when he registered John's appearance. 'Bloody hell John, I thought the other guys looked bad.' He said, voice full of sympathy.

'Yes, yes, Lestrade but have you arrested them? If I had any say in it they'd be dead, not thrown in prison but I guess you can't have everything.' Sherlock mused and Lestrade closed his eyes for just a fraction longer than a blink and set off alarm-bells in Sherlock's mind. Something was not right.

'Be careful what you wish for.' Lestrade shook his head sadly. 'One of the men involved in the incident last night has suffered a brain haemorrhage. He's unconscious and they suspect he might not wake up.' Lestrade explained in response to Sherlock's questioning look.

'Shit!' was John's only response.

'That shouldn't prevent you from arresting the others.' Sherlock argued.

'No, but then I'd have to arrest John too. They're claiming he threw the first punch.' Lestrade looked embarrassed as he delivers the news.

'That's ridiculous.' Sherlock snapped as John offered a soft 'I didn't.'

'I'm not saying you did.' Lestrade rushed to assure him. 'They're using the fact that you defended yourself so fiercely to pretend you wanted a fight. As long as there's no truth in it we'll prove them wrong. It will be fine John, there was another witness right?' Lestrade forced a smile as he walked fully into the room and up to the bed.

'Jane, Jane Brennan.' John nodded but his expression was strained and Sherlock could tell that something was wrong. Something other than the fact that John had been beaten up and was hurting with a hand that may never be fully functional again.

Lestrade appeared blissfully ignorant as ever and simply blundered on. 'So, a Captain Sean Koppinen is claiming that a bunch of you were goofing around playacting at being the characters you were dressed as. He does admit that they were teasing you and that he was aware you seemed to take offence. He says you were mock fighting when you suddenly snapped, hit him in the face and broke his nose at which point he and his friends defended themselves against your unexpected attack. He claims they didn't realise that they were being a bit overzealous, blames the drink. No Just hang on…' Lestrade put a hand out staving off Sherlock and John's protests. 'I know it's bullshit but I need to hear your version of what happened and then we can confirm it with witnesses.' Lestrade and Sherlock both looked expectantly at John who was fiddling with his blanket, looking uncomfortable.

'Tell him John, tell him like you told me earlier.' Sherlock urges. 'They were harassing his friend and then John. It certainly wasn't consensual it's…' Sherlock began but Lestrade shook his head.

'I need to hear it from John, Sherlock.' He protested stopping what would certainly have been a very colourful depiction of the previous night's events. Once again silence settled over the room until finally John straightened his back, took a deep breath and said. 'It's true, more or less, but it wasn't just playacting, it bloody well hurt and I told them to stop.' John fell silent again staring out the window.

'I'm going to need a bit more than that mate.' Lestrade urges.

John nods slowly and with eyes still fixed on something outside the window he starts to recount the past evenings events as briefly as he can.

I went to look for Jane, hoping to get a lift home. When I found her there were three officers, Sean and two others I don't know the name of hassling her. I don't know what they said but she looked scared and one of them , the darker of the two was really in her face and touching her arm in a way that was very suggestive.' John takes a breath and turns to look at Lestrade.

'I intervened of course, told them to leave her alone. They did but they turned their attention on me instead. It was the stupid costume's fault.' John sighed and something clenches uncomfortably in Sherlock's stomach.

'At first it was just nasty comments, they were drunk and I didn't make too much of it. It was Moran who crossed the line. He _was_ playing at being the character he was dressed at, just like Sean said, threatened to rough me up, or well, Bilbo really, not me. Then he punched me in the stomach. It didn't really hurt but it set the other three off. They kept poking and jabbing and… I guess you could have called it playacting if I had been in on it. I wasn't I asked them to stop.' John shudders slightly and then winces as the movement makes the pain flare back up.

'That's good John. If your friend can corroborate that it should be all we need to get them convicted.' Lestrade encourages him.

'I did punch him though.' John admits. 'He hit my shoulder. He caught it badly and it just really hurt. I got angry. You don't do that. I was shot you see, that's why I had to leave the army. I'm sure he knew that, it's a big thing when someone gets wounded in action, and he exploited it.'

Sherlock wonders if John is aware that his right hand has come up to grasp his injured shoulder. He probably can't feel it through the layers of bandages. Especially not with the amount of pain relief he is currently on.

'It just made me so angry. Punching him was pure instinct. I broke his nose, didn't I?' John asked.

'Yes you did, gave him a bit of a concussion too apparently.' Lestrade nodded.

'Tit for tat?' John suggested but it was a question and not a claim. He was clearly uncomfortable with what he had done. 'What's his name? The one who had the brain haemorrhage?' he asked.

'Laurence Woodman. Can you tell me what happened after you hit Koppinen?' Lestrade urges.

'Not much to tell really. They beat the crap out of me, I tried to fight back but my shoulder was playing up and they were three against one. Moran didn't join in, he just watched. Jane tried to get help. I thought they were going to kill me but Gandalf stopped them.' John finishes and Lestrade chuckles slightly. 'Gandalf huh.' His eyebrows go up.

'I don't know his name, but the army will have records of the event.' Jon suggested.

'I'll get a hold of him. So what's the verdict on you? You look terrible.' Lestrade gave John a sympathetic look.

'Not sure yet. My arm seems to be fucked but it might improve. I have a broken collar bone, wrist and sternum and three broken ribs…. My chest will heal but my arm might not. John explains and unwillingly tears spring to his eyes yet again and he angrily wipes them away.

'Does it hurt?' Lestrade asks and John nods

'Feels like someone's standing on my chest. Quite possibly someone heavy wearing metal stilettoes.' John offers with a weak grin and Sherlock is instantly on his feet.

'John what is the point of patient administered pain relief if the patient doesn't administer it?' Sherlock asks reaching for the controls for John's morphine.

'Hey you're not allowed to.' John complains but as the drugs flow into his system he visibly relaxes.

'Better.' Sherlock decides as he sees the frown lines on John's forehead relax, and it isn't a question but rather a statement of his own opinion. 'We'll let you sleep John. I'll be back in a couple of hours.' He states and all but pushes Lestrade out of the room.


	10. Chapter 10

Hi,

I realised I had somehow missed posting chapter two entirely so I have now added this and thus chapter two has become chapter three, chapter three has become chapter four etc… sorry… didn't realize this until I went to read through the story so I could start work on the next chapter.


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